


instead, i took care of you

by ikijai



Category: The X-Files
Genre: 2nd person POV, Episode: s02e08 One Breath, F/M, detailing the time scully almost died, one of the times, possible death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 05:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11075250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikijai/pseuds/ikijai
Summary: "I wish that I had known in that first minute we met, the unpayable debt that I owed you."— The Antlers, Kettering





	instead, i took care of you

 

 _i_  
It's 2 am when you get the call, and you're so out of place and distorted that you think you're dreaming when the voice on the other side of the phone says _they found her, she isn't dead._ You don't turn the t.v. off or put those tapes away before you're out the door, jacket hurriedly wrapped around you, palms uncomfortable.

You drive in the pitch dark for a while, you don't check the time before you're slamming the door and telling your tall, jittery legs to take you to where you've got to be. This is what you've waited for.

You're jogging through a dimly lit hospital-type hallway when your heart begins to pound, and it only worsens as you get nearer and nearer to where they promised she'd be. You wonder if the person on the phone told the truth, whether anybody out there could possibly be sadistic enough to lie about your partner not being dead.

There are doctors or nurses—you don't know the difference—yelling at you to stop. _You can't go in there_ , they warn. You ignore them, though. Until their words are just distant background noise to the sound of your heart pulsing in your throat, tight and dry and painful.

The image you walk into is the most tragic thing you've ever witnessed. Your heart drops into the pit of your stomach, and you don't know if you'll be able to put it back. It's Scully, but only partially. There are tubes paired with wires poking and protruding from all over the place, and she isn't breathing on her own. You're not a doctor, but you know that isn't a good thing. The panic that’d been permanently instilled into you deftly transforms until you're infuriated.

“Who..?” you're saying—or yelling. You're not thinking and there are too many people with not enough answers.

You don't even notice Scully’s mother there, not at first. But she's there, watching her youngest daughter deteriorate right before her eyes. It's so obvious she's dying that it kills you inside, and even then, you don't want to tell yourself it's true. You feel her mother’s pain, tearing its way through her, doubling your own.

Time pauses and starts again instantly. There are more people surrounding you, ignoring your pleas in tones that tell you they don't give a damn one way or the other.

“How did she get here?” You're persistence, yet all they do is try to get you to stop.

“Sir,” the woman says, “will you please—”

“ _How did she get here?!_ ” you demand, this time. _Why isn't anybody telling you?_

The nurse, you decide, tells you that Scully was in this condition when she started working for the evening. She pleads with you to step outside and you want desperately to believe the words she speaks so pitifully. There's a name she’s saying, but it takes you a moment to pick up on it, _perhaps—Doctor Daly._

“Is that Daly?” you yell, turning to the man wearing a plain white coat and tag that spells out the name in tiny block letters. “Are you Daly?!”

The doctor only tells you to settle down, and it just works you up that much more. _How can these people ask you to settle down when the woman you were supposed to protect from this type of thing is dying from an unknown cause? Because of the work you prioritized and weren't willing to let go of?_

Before you know it, you're yelling out everything that travels through your mind in waves and Scully’s mother still isn't looking up.

“Was it, was it paramedics? FBI, military?” You'll do whatever it takes to know what they did to her. To know why she's dead weight in the ICU bed that shouldn't be occupied.

The doctor tries to speak, but you interrupt before he can say something else you don't want to hear. “What, you're telling me she just appeared? _Who did this to her?!_ ”

That's all you want to know. You want to know who put her in this position and you want to kill them.

You want to see what tests they've performed, who's being untruthful about why she's in this terrible place. Whatever it takes, you'll find out what they did. You owe her that much. You owe her in ways words can't possibly define.

 

 _ii_  
They tell you there's no prognosis, that they're unable to identify what's wrong with her even after they tried. _There is no indication of traumatic or non-traumatic injuries_ , the doctor says. There are no signs of degenerative or metabolic disorders. They’ve done every test possible.

 _The prognosis is simple_ , you think. She isn't going to wake up.

 

 _iii_  
A woman you're introduced to as Scully’s sister is there, watching over her and performing some weird healing process that isn't at all physical. She's just as peculiar as Scully described to you.

“I've been told not to call you Fox,” she utters.

 _By Dana_ , she says when you inquire. As if it's at all possible and as if you haven't already thought about trying to talk to her. When she tells you _your fear is blocking positive emotions_ , you can't take it.

The person lying in that hospital bed is too pale and irreparably weakened. Pitiful. _Pathetic_. Not Dana Scully.

“I need to do more than just wave my hands in the air,” you say, disgusted with the way things work but mostly with yourself. Today is too difficult, and walking out on your dying partner is even worse.

 

 _iv_  
You're the one who wrote her death wish into promise—as a witness. Your name is permanently inked onto the will. It's ironic, you think. That you were a willing participant in unplugging the tubes and machines that are the only thing keeping her with you. If you could un-sign those papers, you would.

You find yourself praying to a god you don't believe in that it won't make a difference one way or the other. That she’ll pull through.

Her mother is out in the waiting room, and she calls you Fox even after you'd introduced yourself as Mulder that first time you met. You don't have the heart to tell her again, not when there are more important things to worry about. Not when her daughter is quite possibly dying just inches away.

“Sometimes, I wish Dana chose to just be a doctor,” she whispers.

You don't know what to say. Because Scully deserved better than what you tried to offer with your partnership and because sometimes, you wish the same thing.

 

 _v_  
You tape that x on your window, so desperate that you'll look for any opportunity to _know_. It doesn't work though, and the pain inside you worsens and turns to ice in your thick veins.

You’re trapped inside the torturous dichotomy of knowing she'll die and wanting to think that she won't. Wanting to think that she's pushing to keep going, wherever she is. You know what the doctor told you, but you also know that it isn't enough.

 

 _vi_  
Back in Washington, the lone gunmen pick over Scully’s file like it's an unidentifiable object with a purpose deep inside.

“This branched data is inactive,” they decide. “It's waste product.”

You don't understand what they're talking about, and a part of you doesn't want to know.

“Will she live?” you whisper.

The pause they take is all the answer you need.

 _Her immune system has been decimated._ There's nothing you can do—this wrong cannot be righted.

 

 _vii_  
X shows up tonight, just in the knick of time and simultaneously too late.

His presence is useless. The only thing he does is insist that your search for the truth about what was done to Scully _desist immediately_ —all while pointing a deadly weapon directly at you. You're not disappointed, though. You stopped trusting people years ago.

X tells you  _you got deep throat killed_ , _you got her killed_ , and you're disgusted because you know it's true.

You think about what he told you before.  _They only have one policy: deny everything._

“She's not dead,” you insist, teeth clenched, head pounding.

The informant laughs, and you twitch. “You're a damn schoolboy, Mulder. You have no idea.”

“Okay, then tell me. Tell me!” you yell desperately, tired and at a loss for words.

“ _I used to be you_.”

 

 _viii_  
Today, they're telling you she'll probably die. They're telling you in not so many words that you should just give up because the idea of waking up is _improbable_. They tell you that anything else is just denial of the truth. Funny, you think, that your obsession with the truth has brought you to furthest thing from it.

Dana Scully isn't the type of person who dies. Not this way. She's too young and there's too much she still deserves to do in the world. Dying isn't one of those things.

The doctor says she's probably been in this state since her disappearance and will not improve, but you don't accept it. Not after what you were told out in the parking lot.

“Discontinuing the respirator doesn't necessarily mean pulling the plug,” Daly informs.

 _Yeah_ , you think. _It just means killing her._

They want to pull the plug, to just _give up_. It's only been days, but they want to yank it out because _it's what Dana would want._

“She's not a piece of evidence,” Scully’s sister pronounces, upset—defensive for a person who tells tales about positive energy.

“She's here because of unnatural circumstances,” you object. You're desperate to change their minds about practically killing her.

“She's _dying_." And it's the first time anyone's dared to utter it. “That's perfectly _natural_.”

Your pulse quickens at the possibility.

_We hide people in these rooms because we don't want to look at death. We have machines prolong a life that should end. That's a much more unnatural circumstance than any cause of her death._

It kills you, that they're willing to quit trying to _try_ because they thinks it's what she wants. But Scully isn't your family. This isn't your decision.

 

 _ix_  
When you find out where the wretch who took a part in this is, you nearly kill him. Under dim lights as he watches t.v. and smokes a cigarette like he's innocent.

Your jaw tightens and your glare pierces as you demand answers you know he won't give you.

“You're becoming a player,” the old man jeers, “you can kill me now, but you'll never know the truth.”

Though your finger tightens over the trigger, you can't pull it. Not if what he's saying is true.

“ _I’ll win_ ,” the old man says, and you don't want to tell yourself it’s possible.

But right now, it seems like everyone in the world is winning except you.

 

 _x_  
You're done. With the FBI and with the x-files and anything else that had to do with your partner’s inevitable death. You type your resignation. You pack up your office and tell yourself not to look back. It's over.

 _You killed her._ You know it's the work that did this, and Duane Barry, but it was you too. You knew the potential dangers, but you didn't tell her. You had a part in this too.

 

 _xi_  
You think about it—killing yourself. The tips of your fingers are inches away from your automatic weapon, twitching to hold onto something that won't die. But you won't do it.

When there's a knock at the door, you point your weapon toward it and prepare to pull the trigger for real this time. But it's Scully’s sister, and she's telling you to drop your paranoia and defeat. _Dana expects more._

The words are like knives, tearing you up until you're in tiny, jagged pieces. “Even if it doesn't bring her back, at least she'll know. And so will _you_.”

 _I still have my work_ , you'd told her once. _I still have you._

 

 _xii_  
They've unplugged those terrifying tubes and turned off the machines, and it's just Scully. Unmoving and peacefully withering away.

You talk to her, though it's pointless. You're terrified to even touch her. She's too pale and too weak. And she's dying.

 

 _xiii_  
Your place is wrecked and so are you. Tables are thrown around, papers are torn up. But none of that is important.

It's been days and Scully is still deteriorating—increasingly since they've decided to take away the prolonging methods. There's nothing that could possibly justify this.

The white-hot rage you felt dissipates into pure, unadulterated sadness. There are tears in your eyes and an unrelenting weight on every part of you. And since everything is unmoving inside, you can immediately tell when the first whimpers escape your parted lips and wrack your very being inside the doorway. You're in the pit of despair, and the defeat has taken you down with it. You're paralyzed from the waist down.

The x-files weren't worth this.

 

 _xiv_  
The phone rings, but you don't pick it up instantly. You know what they'll say. _It happened_ , you imagine. _It's over._ You pick it up after waiting what feels like years.

“I'm here,” you utter, trying to prepare yourself for those inevitable two words.

It's useless, though. They tell you something you didn't know you wanted to hear and you can't stop the smile that widens over you until it's painful.

By the time you get there, you know it's true. And you want to get to your knees and pray to whatever or whoever will listen because _she's awake_ , and she's talking and joking until the beats your heart skip don't worry you anymore.

She tells you that she doesn't remember anything, not after what happened with Duane Barry.

“It doesn't matter,” you whisper, and it doesn't.

She's too important to you and you're too thankful she isn't dead. The two of you can deal with the details some other time.

“I brought you a present,” you utter. The innocent smile on her precious face makes it all worth it.

“I knew there was a reason to live,” she jokes, those deep, expressive pools you didn't know would open again softly tearing through your own.

Despite everything you've put her through, she looks happy to see you. And all you can think is that you don't deserve it. She thanks you when you give back what's hers that you’d been holding onto. It's whispered and desolate, but you'll take it.

She was wrongfully diagnosed—they were wrong to underestimate her. But none of that is important, because she's okay and tiredly waking and smiling over the dumb things you think of to say.

The pain in knowing she nearly died because of you is indescribable—you'll spend your whole life knowing it. But you know you'll spend your whole life trying to right that wrong, too.


End file.
